Death in the City

in front of a large building with many windows. Paint was chipping off the front door and the doorknob nearly came clean off as Tim swung it open. “Here we are, 55 Macci Street,” he said, letting Death in first and closing the door behind them. Before them stood a creaky, dusty hallway that led to an abnormally steep flight of grungy stairs. As they walked together the entire apartment building seemed to creak loud enough to wake the dead. Death ran his finger along the wall right before they arrived at the staircase, taking chips of paint, dust, and a hefty amount of mold with him.
“This is great,” said Death as he and Tim walked up the stairs. He meant what he said; he was grateful for what Tim was doing for him.
“It’s nothing too special, but it’ll help you ou—“ Tim started, but before he could finish there was a great cracking of splintering wood and he fell straight through the staircase. He crashed to the floor underneath with a great thud and cloud of dust. Death stood on the stairs, mouth agape, as Tim ran around and back up the staircase. Then, as though nothing had happened at all, he kept walking, explaining, “It’ll help you out for now.” The two arrived at a door, labeled A7, and Tim knocked.
A man who looked like a jittery weasel opened the door dressed in a brown suit with a matching vest. His hair was greasy and combed over a prominent bald spot on the center of his head. He twiddled his fingers around as he said, without meeting their eyes with his, “Oh, do come in.”
Death followed Tim into the drafty three-room apartment. He figured perhaps it could look nice in the right amount of sunlight. On the other side of the living room was a young man on a couch. He slept with a backwards baseball cap on his head, which laid bent backwards over the cushions, and his mouth hanging wide open. A television played silent infomercials and cast the room in a dim bluish-purple light.
“Hiya, Pete,” said Tim. “This is the guy I was telling you about.”
“Ah, hello,” said the man, holding out his hand. “Name’s Pete.” When Death did not shake, Pete played it off as though he were extending his hand to run it across his greasy side part. He turned to Tim and said, “Well, okay then. Two months rent for free, then we’re even?”
“Two?” asked Tim, examining the curtains. “I think it’ll be three.”
“Three? Why?” said Pete, raising the anger in his voice but not the volume. “Two months would come to seven hundred dollars. I owe you three hundred for the rented ice cream truck and only one for the extra horse. I’m giving you a deal here.”
“You also forgot about the four hundred you owe me for the cooking utensils and for finding those immigrants to help you,” said Tim.
“That was a gift,” said Pete , throwing his arms into the air. “You even told me it was when you gave them to me. You’re being a lowlife.” His voice was strained and his eyes bulged as he spoke. Tim put his face right in front of Pete’s and spoke pointedly, as though Pete were hearing impaired:
“Listen. You’re going to give him three months, and that’s final.”
“You and your friend can just get out of my apartment complex then,” said Pete. His voice carried with it confidence but his demeanor held shades of meekness and fright. “Go on, get out.” He raised his fists in defiance.
“You’re messing with the wrong man,” said Tim, holding his fists up as well.
“Whoa, fellas,” said Death, stretching his arms out. “No need to get hasty.”
“You can just shut up,” said Pete, slapping Death on the shoulder. And swiftly he fell to the floor, reaped. Tim looked at Death, who began to shy away.
“Wow, that was great,” exclaimed Tim, waking the man on the couch up out of a hefty snoring session. “Well, I guess the place is yours then. Listen, I’m going to be at the HaffCaff Café down on the boulevard tomorrow. Why don’t you join me, eight in the morning? I guess I owe you one again for getting this guy off my back. I’ll buy you a coffee and maybe something to eat since you’re new here.”
“Alright, sounds great to me,” said Death. He felt good about this retirement adventure already. “The boulevard. I’ll find it.”
“Good,” said Tim. “I’ll see you then.” And with that, Tim left.
Death walked over to the couch to the now awake young man and sat down next to him. “Hello,” said Death. “I’m Death.”
“What?” asked the man in a deep voice that carried across the apartment.
“I’m…um…Derek,” said Death.
“Oh, yo,” said the man, lifting himself up and centering his backwards hat. “I’m Brian. We roommates?”
“I guess so,” said Death.
“Alright, sweet. Ballin’,” said the man. “I’m Brian,” he repeated.
“Brian, good to meet you then,” said Death.
“You gotta give me a day or so, I’m super smashed right now.”
“Smashed?” asked Death, looking Brian over, expecting to see his body mangled and broken.
“Yeah. Tequila.” And on that note, Brian turned his head to the side and began snoring. Death got up to find his bed.
He lay down, still wearing his suit, and stared up at the ceiling. And, for the first time in thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of years, Death slept.
Death on the Bridge
“Have you seen the pastry shop across the bridge?” asked Tim to Death. They were sitting at a table beside the giant windows of the HaffCaff Café.
“Which pastry shop across which bridge?” asked Death. He grasped a coffee mug with his spider-leg fingers as steam plumed from the top of it. He gave it a short burst of breath to cool it down and took a sip, smacking his lips together in delight and comfort.
“I still have to show you around, huh?” said Tim, emptying a sugar packet into his own mug and stirring